


lycoris

by pseudocitrus



Series: lycoris [1]
Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: M/M, Mild Blood, Mild Gore, Smut, ageswap au, arikane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-14 01:24:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5724256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pseudocitrus/pseuds/pseudocitrus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just when Kaneki thinks the worst is over, the Reaper comes to Anteiku. (Arikane AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [彼岸花](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7403662) by [Lucyair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucyair/pseuds/Lucyair)



> wow. ok. haha. uhm. this is. an arikane au based on some headcanons with [neimana](http://neimana.tumblr.com) :’D
> 
> hope you’re having a good day/end of the year!!

_The worst_ , Kaneki thinks, _is over_ , and even as he thinks it, the door to Anteiku opens.

The bell rings. There’s a beat, and a cold breeze. A choked hush falls across the cafe. In the next moment, the silence disperses harshly as the cafe occupants rush to fill it.

The one who entered doesn’t seem to notice. They survey the room, and then they walk to the service counter, and order a drink.

A black coffee, Kaneki hears. A ghoul, then? A really scary ghoul?

They take a seat at a table nearby. Kaneki watches they lean their guitar case against the bookshelves, and withdraw a book from their bag. Curious, Kaneki cranes a little to see the cover, and then stiffens as the person suddenly looks straight at him. Kaneki quickly bows his head back into his book, and doesn’t dare glance up again.

Later, Yoshimura-san explains, quietly. Kaneki can barely hear him over the rustling of the paper-wrapped packages he’s handing over the counter.

“That was Arima Kishou. The Reaper.”

“Oh,” Kaneki says. “I see.”

He waits, and then coughs. “So…he’s a powerful ghoul?”

“No,” Yoshimura says. “He’s a Dove.”

“Oh,” Kaneki says. “I see.”

He presses his finger down across the waxed paper of one of the packages. It’s…tender. He swallows and looks back up.

“Yoshimura-san,” he says. “Um. Would it be possible for you to spare some sugar for me as well?”

Yoshimura gives him a faint smile. “You’ll have to eat meat eventually, Kaneki-kun,” he says.

But he hands over a bag of sugar anyway.

:::

He’s sure that it’s possible that Arima Kishou is a very powerful person, but…

Somehow…well. It just seems ridiculous that a human who looks so close to Kaneki’s age could possibly be hunting Rize, much less actually have the ability to hold out against her.

“We just need to act normally,” Yoshimura tells everyone, sternly. “Once he realizes Rize-chan isn’t in the area, he’ll move on. Just act normally.”

That means — attending shifts as usual, and visiting the cafe as usual, even if the amount of customers they’re getting has plummeted drastically, and continues dwindling with every afternoon Arima spends quietly reading at one of Anteiku’s corner tables.

The other Anteiku staff members are tense; Yomo-san has vanished completely. Kaneki, for his part, does his best to keep to his usual habits, and remain unsuspicious.

 _Act normally,_ Kaneki recites to himself, _don’t look at Arima Kishou, don’t talk to Arima Kishou_ , and he is fully committed to both of these things until the day that he finds himself standing in line at the register, with Arima Kishou in front of him.

 _Don’t look_ , Kaneki chants. He concentrates on the lines in his book. _Don’t talk_.

Arima Kishou says something, and Kaneki doesn’t realize what it is until he sees a slender finger slide into the fold of his book. He turns his face up, heart racing.

“Huh?”

“Excuse me. Do you have a little extra change?” Arima asks. “I’m short.”

“It’s fine,” Touka calls from the counter, “please, don’t worry about it,” but Arima doesn’t look back. He is staring at Kaneki, with dark, dark eyes.

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” Arima says. “But I just need a small amount.”

Kaneki’s mouth is dry. He looks at Touka helplessly, and sees that she’s mouthing, _Do it! Do it! Do it, you idiot!_

“Y-yes!” Kaneki bursts. “Yes. I have some. I. Um.”

He rummages in his bag, so quickly that he forgets to put his book away first, and it gets knocked onto the floor. He bends to pick it up, but he’s too late; Arima Kishou has already grabbed it.

“Th-thanks,” Kaneki says. He holds out his trembling hand, and Arima shakes his head.

“I can hold it for you while you search,” Arima tells him, and Kaneki swallows.

“Okay! I mean, yes. I mean — thank you.”

The change is retrieved, and set on the tray on the counter. Touka takes it. Again, Kaneki holds out his hand for the book, but Arima is eyeing the back cover thoughtfully.

“I’ve always wanted to read this,” he says.

“Oh…you…have?”

“What,” Arima asks, “do you think about it?”

“Oh. Ah…well…it’s good,” Kaneki says.

“What’s good about it?”

“It’s…well. It’s a very, um…delicate portrayal…”

He goes on, breaking only a bit to tell Touka his order. Every word rambles and tumbles out of him like jagged stones, but Arima listens attentively, occasionally nodding or adding an “I see,” and Kaneki finds his courage gathering.

They receive their drinks. Arima follows Kaneki to his table, and sits down.

They talk.

:::

And the next day…and the day after that…

They talk.

:::

Books. Literature. Poetry. Classes. Coffee. Films. Favorite bookstores.

It’s not…that…bad.

He’s never met someone else before who has read so much from Takatsuki Sen, much less someone who seemed so interested in what Kaneki himself had to say about books. Kaneki finds himself talking all the way up until they start heading for the door, but when he apologizes for taking up all the time with his chattering, Arima just says, “It’s fine. It’s very interesting.”

“It seems okay,” Kaneki tells Yoshimura, after hours. “I mean, _he_ seems okay. It doesn’t seem like he suspects Anteiku or anything. He said…I mean, he could be lying, of course, but he said…that he just transferred to Kamii, so…so, you know. I mean, I don’t know. Probably he hasn’t made too many friends yet. And we both read books, so…” Kaneki trails off, uncomfortably. “Anyway. That’s what I’ve learned.”

Yoshimura frowns, and looks down at the counter.

“Perhaps our assumption that he was after Rize-chan was mistaken,” he sighs. “If he instead is after the cafe…”

“I don’t think he is,” Kaneki says quickly. “He hasn’t mentioned anything like that.”

“He’s the CCG’s Reaper, Kaneki-kun.” Yoshimura’s voice is firm. “He’s responsible for the deaths of countless ghouls. Please don’t underestimate him.”

Kaneki swallows. “Of course. Understood.”

He stands from the counter, and then hesitates.

“Yoshimura-san…” he says. “Could I please…have some more of the sugar?”

Yoshimura smiles, sadly.

“Kaneki-kun,” he starts, and Kaneki shakes his head, in embarrassment.

“Right. Yes. I’m sorry.”

He needs to eat the meat. Avoiding it is…starting to get to him already. When he enters the cafe, he staggers a little as he passes by a table often reserved by an all-human group from Kamii. By the time Arima shows up, there are two empty mugs besides Kaneki’s open book.

“Hi, Arima-kun,” Kaneki says, trying to sound bright.

“Did you not get enough sleep last night?” Arima asks.

“Ah, no — I mean — yes. Yeah. I’ve…had a lot to do,” Kaneki says. “Things that I haven’t been doing.” He turns away to fake a yawn.

“I can leave you alone today,” Arima offers, and Kaneki swiftly begins moving the mugs aside to make space for him.

“No, no, it’s fine! It’s no trouble at all.”

“Alright.” Arima unslings his guitar case, and positions it against the wall, and sits down. Kaneki sighs with relief, and — in that long inhale —

He smells something delicious. His stomach tightens and releases a hard grumble; Kaneki grips it, and Arima glances over.

“I still need to order coffee,” Arima says. “Would you like me to get you anything?”

“N-no,” Kaneki stammers. “Um, no thanks. I’m — on a diet. Don’t worry. I, um, have food at home. That I’ll eat.”

Arima tilts his head. “Kaneki-san, you can cook?”

“Um…a little. Yes. Why?” Kaneki attempts a smile. “Is that so strange?”

Arima considers. “Somehow I didn’t think you’d be the type. What do you like to eat?”

“Oh. Um…just…”

Fleshy arms, with cream-soft palms and slender fingers like cookies crowning a parfait.

Succulent thighs and long, crisp leg bones filled with chocolate marrow.

Toes as round and tender as truffles.

Kaneki crams a tissue against his watering mouth.

“Burgers,” he says.

“Burgers?”

“Burgers.”

“Just burgers?”

“They’re my favorite,” Kaneki insists. “I could eat them every day.”

“So you’re eating burgers,” Arima says. “And you’re on a diet?”

“It’s a burger diet,” Kaneki says feebly.

To his surprise, then, Arima smiles. Kaneki swallows.

It’s the first time Arima-kun has smiled like that.

And it’s…uhm.

It’s not…an unattractive smile.

“Maybe next time we should go to a burger place, then,” Arima says, and Kaneki blinks at him.

“U-um…what? Why?”

“Why?” That steady gaze again. “Didn’t you just say that burgers are your favorite?”

“Well, sure, but…”

But why would that matter to Arima?

“We don’t need to go,” Arima says, and Kaneki finds himself with a swift protest.

“N-no! That — that sounds like fun.”

 _It’s been a while since I’ve visited Big Girl_. It would be nice to go again, to see those familiar servers again, and to have that familiar taste, and to share all those things with someone like Arima who just moved here and probably hasn’t tried it before. For one, uninterrupted moment, Kaneki is full of nothing but anticipation.

And then, like a punch in the stomach, he remembers.

Of course. There’s a reason he hasn’t been back in a while. There’s a reason why going somewhere like that with Arima Kishou is the worst idea. There’s a reason why he shouldn’t…really…be getting close to him, at all.

His belly grumbles, as if with some kind of sick assent.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like something to eat?” Arima asks, and Kaneki grimaces.

He _would_ like something to eat. He… _should_ get something to eat.

“Maybe…could I get…another coffee, please?”

“Of course. Black, right?”

“…Right.”

:::

Avoiding it…is…starting to get to him.

But when he thinks about the packages in his fridge…when he even just visualizes peeling the paper back, and bringing the contents to his tongue…

 _Yes,_ something inside him cries.

 _No,_ something inside him cries.

His stomach jerks, in desire, in agony. He wakes up in blurred, twisted haze. At some point he forces himself out of bed.

 _I need to see Arima-kun,_ he thinks, _I need to act normally,_ and it doesn’t even occur to him that it’s far past their usual hour, that the sun has already set and Arima is probably long gone. He leaves his apartment, wincing as his shoulder crashes into the frame of the door.

Outside, the breezes are permeated with delicious smells. They twist into his skull, dragging him left and right, and he has to shake his head furiously to free himself and try to stay on course.

Walking around has been pretty safe, recently, even at these times, thanks to the presence of the the Reaper. But, as Kaneki passes by a certain alley, he suddenly is grabbed and shoved back into a brick wall inside of it.

“You,” comes a growl.

“M-me?” Kaneki gasps. “What? What’s the matter?”

There are multiple shadows here. Kaneki’s nose flares. His breathing becomes staggered and hard with fear. All of these people are much larger than him, and they don’t smell like food.

“I didn’t think the Anteiku group could be any more of a traitor,” one of the shadows says. “But now you’re working with the _Reaper_?”

“I — no! I’m not! I mean, we’re not! We can’t — we can’t help it if —”

“Shut up!” one of ghouls hiss, and Kaneki’s mouth snaps shut.

A blur. A twisted haze. An arm lifts and something inside him, that newly-planted thing, bares its teeth and bites and there’s a scream. A rash of knuckles; a steel-toed boot. Pain lances across his face, and then across his stomach, and Kaneki scrambles to his feet, only to find himself smacked like a fly against the wall.

The wall cracks. Agony burns like a flame across his belly, and he looks down to see his clothing soaked in blood. Kaneki chokes on jagged dust.

 _Fight_ , he tells himself, _fight_ , and he begs his kagune to come out and hears a heavy _rip_ — his jacket tearing — thank goodness, thank goodness. He stabs out blindly and gets to his feet, posing his rinkaku around him like a defensive cage, but he is so hungry, and — the ghouls all have — a _something_ — a something-kaku that’s much larger and sharper, that slices the fanged tapers from Kaneki’s kagune like dough.

The blood drains from Kaneki’s face. He turns to run, and something swerves out from behind him and trips him, easily. He skids messily, on his knees and face. He turns, in panic, his palms cutting into the cement, and slipping on blood.

 _My blood_ , he realizes. _Mine_.

“Please don’t,” Kaneki begs. “Please don’t kill me, I — I didn’t do anything to you, I — don’t even hunt, so —”

The ghouls’ laughter drowns him out.

“Useless Anteiku scum. Don’t worry, we’ll make sure your miserable life serves at least one purpose,” one says, kneeling in front of him. “We’ll chop up that soft little body of yours and string up all the pieces in front of that cafe. How does that sound? Do you think the Reaper will still want to stick around then?”

“P-please,” Kaneki tries again, but the ghoul is raising their kagune like a guillotine, and Kaneki can’t look away, Kaneki watches with horror as the ghoul grins. In the next moment, the ghoul’s head tilts to gaze down at Kaneki, and then it falls off completely.

The skull hits on the ground with a wet bounce, rolling against Kaneki’s leg, and he screams and kicks it away. The headless body follows soon after, and Kaneki only just manages to avoid being crushed by it, only just manages to get to his feet. His mouth is still emitting a scream, but there are no other voices accompanying him — just thumps, as bodies and heads fall to the ground one after another, like flowers being cut. The ghouls eyes roll up, obsidian, glassy with astonishment.

Everyone — all of those strong ghouls — cut down in what seemed like an instant. Kaneki can’t breathe. He’s never seen such carnage. Who…who…?

His eyes flutter wildly across the alleyway, at the only person left standing there besides himself. Their figure is in shadow, but certain things glint in the light.

A long sword.

Glasses.

And a guitar case.

_Arima-kun!_

There’s no time to think — Kaneki just covers his face, and turns, and runs, as fast as his terror can carry him.

_It’s Arima-kun. Arima-kun is the Reaper. The CCG’s Reaper._

_He killed them, and — and next —_

It’s adrenaline, maybe — that keeps him going — even as he clutches his hand to his bleeding belly. He’s getting weaker.

 _I need to eat_ , he thinks, licking his lips, _I need flesh, I need meat,_ and his eyes flick over towards a main street, and he takes a couple steps toward it before the other side of his mind kicks in and screams _NO._

No streets, no alleys, no place where there are people he might accidentally devour. The canal. He stumbles toward it, loses his footing and tumbles all the way down and uncurls at the bottom of it with a wheeze of agony. He crawls into the shadows and looks up to see if he lost Arima, and realizes his own blood marks his trail like paint.

 _NO_. _I’m so — so stupid —_

Maybe — maybe Arima won’t —

No. He hears footsteps, fast and certain. Kaneki fumbles for his mask, tucked away in his jacket’s inner pocket, and crams it over his skull, waiting, trembling. If he can just…if he can just disable Arima, for just a little…then maybe…maybe…

He holds his breath as a shadow tears across the golden light across the pavement. Even distorted, Kaneki can tell it’s Arima’s silhouette. He can practically sense Arima’s body finding its way down closer to the water.

His finely-braided muscle, its graceful motion. His supple skin, its glimmer in the light.

Saliva is beginning to dampen the inside of Kaneki’s mask. Arima is still walking, scanning the area. Kaneki has one chance, one chance to catch him off guard, one slim, slim possibility —

Arima’s eyes sweep away.

_Now!_

A pair of rinkaku emerge from his back, renewed, sharp; he digs them into the ground and launches himself forward. One good swipe, not enough to hurt him, just enough so Kaneki can run, just enough so he can run — one rinkaku whips around to dig its point into the arm that’s holding the sword, and —

Arima turns around, fluid, sword raised, point faced outward. He barely even winces as the kagune lands into it and severs itself and tumbles away, writhing. Kaneki’s eyes widen, and he only just manages to leap backward and duck as the sword comes flying at the place his throat had been a moment earlier.

 _I’m going to die_.

Is Arima really a Dove? Is he really human? Kaneki has never seen a human this fast, this elegant. Like water. Like a living blade. Kaneki’s heart is in his throat and it’s all he can do to dodge every stab and slash, to maneuver his remaining rinkaku so that it isn’t severed.

There’s no training he can reference for this. Exhaustion and injury and horror are making his head light. His thoughts are dissolving, and his other self is taking over, sinking its teeth into every muscle. Making his body miss the blade by millimeters. Making him dare to swing his kagune close to Arima’s sweatless face.

 _So close, so close, so close_ —

Just another centimeter and he can crack Arima’s skull like a fresh melon. Just another millimeter and he can split Arima from throat to belly like a jam-filled pastry. His left eye is aching. His whole body feels like it’s vibrating.

_So so so so close —_

Starvation and desperation make him reckless, and powerful. His rinkaku swing, and Arima swings his word to meet it, and Kaneki makes the cells thick and viscous and _flings_ — catching the sword in mud of his rinkaku, and letting it splatter. The sword clatters to the ground, but Arima doesn’t miss a beat — he raises his leg to kick — and Kaneki catches his ankle and throws him, flat onto his back.

Arima lands with a huff, and Kaneki leaps on him. Straddling. Pinning.

Even below him, even disarmed, Arima seems perfectly calm. Serene as if they were in the cafe together, sitting across from each other, about to start a conversation. This close, though, Kaneki can tell that he’s ever so slightly out of breath. His chest is rising up against Kaneki’s palm. And — his — _scent_ —

Arima reaches for his sword’s hilt, and Kaneki stops him, clenches Arima’s wrist and prevents it from moving. Kaneki’s other hand raises to his own face, and unzips the mask, and he inhales deeply, and reels.

Dark hair and dark, fresh eyes. A warm, firm body. How closely he listens. The memory of his voice, low and solid and deliberate, every word served with care and preparation. Kaneki’s hunger is a fist around his heart. It swells, and squeezes, and Kaneki bends down, and kisses him.

It’s soft. Gentle. Teeth sheathed at the last moment, and a tiny noise when Arima’s mouth is even more tender than he imagined. It’s a half-conscious and yet totally committed action, as easy to take as swallowing food.

Still, when Kaneki realizes what he’s doing, he jerks, and sits up, and shoves himself to his feet. His blood turns, in a moment, from hot to cold.

Before Arima can stand, or say anything, Kaneki flees.

 


	2. Chapter 2

When he wakes up, it’s on the floor of his apartment. The fridge is open, and completely empty. Around him are strips of ripped-up paper. He groans, and rolls over, blearily, onto fingers and palms that are sticky.

The light is too bright. The fog in his head is too thick. He rubs his skull, brows furrowing as memories return to him in streaks.

The gnarl of food and paper in his teeth.

The raucous sound of wet chews and gulps.

A…a pain in his stomach. Gone now. From…ghouls…

A lot of ghouls. Gone now. Shadows. A sword. The… _Reaper_ …

His eyes widen.

The Reaper. _Arima-kun_. The canal. And —

_What…have I done?_

He cups a hand over his mouth. It has to be a mistake. He forces himself to relive it again, begs the details to realign. Instead, they only get clearer.

Arima-kun’s delicious smell.

Arima-kun’s delicious mouth.

Arima-kun —

 _He knows about me_.

No. No, he doesn’t.

He would be in a suitcase, now, if Arima knew. So.

Maybe Arima doesn’t know.

Yet.

Kaneki’s mind races. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.

 _I’m so stupid._ _I’m so stupid!_

If he had just listened to Yoshimura, if he had just _eaten_ —

He wouldn’t have gotten lost. He wouldn’t have been too weak to defend himself. And he wouldn’t have — to Arima —

_I’m so — so —_

What should he do?

He’s still alive, for now, but he has no idea what it means. Does Arima really not know? Or does he still need to confirm Kaneki’s identity before proceeding?

If he goes back to Anteiku — he might be giving Arima exactly what he wants.

But if he runs, then he…he might…still be giving Arima exactly what he wants.

Kaneki showers, hoping it will clear his head. He dresses, hoping it will clear his head.

Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.

In the end, Yoshimura’s words return to him.

 _Act normally_.

He has one last jacket left without holes in it, and he puts it on, and checks his appearance in the mirror again. His belly is neatly healed already, though somewhat round with gorging. The wounds on his face, too, have smoothed over. His fingers graze across his own lips before he fists his hands and jams them against his sides.

He can do it.

One last eyepatch adjustment. One last straightening of his jacket. One last deep breath.

And then he makes himself leave.

:::

He arrives, much earlier than his usual time. His usual table is almost always vacant, but when his eyes drift toward it, he finds it already occupied.

_By Arima-kun._

He forces himself to take another step forward, and another, and another. At the counter, Koma greets him as usual, and Kaneki somehow finds the right replies for Koma’s good-natured jabs. If Koma suspects that anything unusual happened the day previous, he doesn’t show it.

He is…just like always.

Irimi is the one that makes his coffee, and she doesn’t even spare him a second glance as she slides it over and turns back to argue with Koma.

Just like always.

For a moment, he dares to hope.

_Everything is fine after all._

Everything is fine. There are no problems. Maybe yesterday didn’t even happen. Kaneki approaches the table.

“Good morning, Arima-kun. How have you been?” Kaneki asks, as always, and Arima nods and replies, “Fine,” just as always.

“How are you, Kaneki-san?” Arima asks. “I noticed you weren’t here yesterday. Were you sick?”

Kaneki blinks. _I can’t believe it._ He doesn’t even need to bring up his excuse himself.

“I just had a stomachache,” he answers brightly. “But, it’s nothing to worry about. I rested, and now everything is fine.”

“Oh? Are you sure? Maybe the burger diet isn’t serving you well after all,” Arima says, and Kaneki laughs, with huge relief.

“Maybe not!”

Everything is fine. It’s as if nothing has changed at all. He is fine, and Anteiku is fine, and Arima-kun isn’t going to kill him. Best of all, they can continue chatting together like this, just like always.

 _The worst_ , Kaneki thinks, _is over_ , and even as he thinks it, the door to Anteiku opens.

The bell rings. There’s a beat, and a cold breeze. Kaneki chokes mid-sentence as the air inside the cafe is stirred, as Arima’s hair is brushed aside ever so slightly, as it wafts Arima’s smell over to him, directly into his nose. It — it smells —

 _Delicious_.

Even more delicious than it did before. And it had been so good yesterday, so absolutely sweet, Arima had had some kind of heat and flavor that he had never encountered, a flavor that couldn’t be matched to any memory of food he’d ever —

Kaneki covers his mouth, and Arima glances over.

“Kaneki-san? Are you alright?” His eyes are fixed. “Are you feeling sick again?”

“N-no — no. Sorry. I’m fine.”

 _I’m full_ , he tells himself in panic. _Aren’t I already full?_

Kaneki breaks Arima’s gaze, and tries to focus on something else. Like Arima’s fingers. Their slight, gleamy callouses, like the surface of a créme brûlée. He brushes his hair aside, and Kaneki follows the long, smooth line of his throat, which looks absolutely —

“I…think…I’ll be heading out first, though,” Kaneki says, weakly.

“Oh,” Arima says. “Actually, I was about to leave myself, and I was wondering if you’d join me to pick up _The Black Goat’s Egg_ today. Would you mind showing me the bookstore you mentioned? Your favorite?”

“I…oh, well, I…”

“Unless,” Arima says, “you’re sick after all?”

There’s no way, but…

Somehow…it sounds like an accusation.

“I’m not sick,” Kaneki tells him hastily. “I can do it. Sure. Of course.”

:::

His favorite bookstore is one that he hasn’t visited in months. His last excursion involving it didn’t end so well, and, even now, Kaneki’s stomach curdles a little as he enters the door, as if fully expecting another stabbing betrayal.

“Well,” he says weakly. “This is it.”

The bookstore is quiet, mostly-empty; the floor creaks beneath their feet. The store attendant greets them and they nod and proceed further inside, Arima stepping cautiously to prevent his guitar case from toppling displays.

Arima peers at the shelves, browsing silently, and Kaneki follows. For some reason, the easy air between them feels like it’s tensing, knotting up. It could be just his imagination, though. It’s probably just his imagination.

He clears his throat. “This store is arranged a little unusually. Takatsuki Sen’s novels are…sort of…in that area, near the back.”

He tries to sound light. Arima looks back at him.

“Are you alright?”

“Y-yeah…yeah, I’m fine. I just had…kind of a weird experience here, last time.”

“Oh?” Arima is walking ahead, to an area labeled _Horror_. “What happened?”

“Ah…um…a couple things. Nothing really. I was with an acquaintance, and it just…um. Ended unfortunately.”

Black eyes. A long claw. A red smile.

“I mean — not ‘unfortunately!’ That’s not the right word. It just went…strangely.”

 _I’m an idiot_ , Kaneki marvels. Isn’t Arima Kishou here to search for Rize? What is he _saying_?

It’s too easy to talk to Arima. Kaneki swallows. His hands are starting to feel damp. He rubs them together, and then scratches his shoulder, which is itching precisely where he remembers teeth sinking into it. The walls are starting to feel close. Distracted, he bumps into Arima, and gets another good whiff, and exhales with a huff, as quickly as possible.

“Kaneki-san?” They’re in the section now, a tiny aisle with repetitions of Takatsuki Sen’s name. The aisle’s other end terminates with another shelf. “Are you alright?”

Kaneki swallows, again. His mouth is watering.

This is bad.

His voice is bare. “I’m really sorry, Arima-kun, but I — I need to go. Sorry,” he says. “I guess I’m still sick after all.”

He starts to step around Arima and —

Arima steps sideways to block his path.

“Kaneki-san,” Arima says. “You’re not sick. And, I doubt you were sick yesterday.”

His voice is quiet, like he is trying to avoid being heard. He is quiet, too, as he unslings the guitar case, and sets it down on the floor. Kaneki’s heart claws up into his throat.

“W-w-what do you mean?” Kaneki stammers. Arima steps closer. Closer. Close —

“Kaneki-san,” Arima says. “Why did you kiss me?”

_Oh, no. Oh no, oh no —_

“I’m sorry!” The blood is draining from Kaneki’s face. “I — I apologize. Please — please forgive me, I was…it was…a mistake.”

“Was it?” Arima steps closer. “How unfortunate.”

“Don’t,” Kaneki gasps. “Don’t come near me or I’ll — I might —”

Black eyes. A long claw. A red smile.

He backs away, but Arima pursues, one step and than another, until Kaneki’s back smacks against the shelf behind him. Beneath the eye patch, he feels his left eye twitch. He covers his mouth with his hand, and Arima hooks his fingers into it, fingertips pressing into Kaneki’s palm. He takes Kaneki’s hand down, and kisses him.

It’s soft. Gentle. An instant of contact broken by a sharp breath that’s immediately smothered as their lips meet again, harder.

Closer. Chests pressing. The shelf digs into Kaneki’s spine and he barely even feels it, Arima is too good, so absolutely sweet, with some kind of heat and flavor that doesn’t match any memory of food he’s ever —

He takes a staggered breath and can’t stop a groan that mirrors Arima’s sigh. Arima’s tender mouth is turning rough, with teeth grazing Kaneki’s lower lip, with a suckle that makes him faint.

Deeper, deeper. Arima’s glasses are pressing against Kaneki’s face — his head is tilting, to get a better angle, and Kaneki can’t help it, he eases his tongue out to taste and Arima meets it, just as hungrily, and cradles his face with one hand to pose him better. His other hand rests on Kaneki’s neck, and drifts down gently to his collarbone. His hand is feather-light. Sternum. Stomach. Waist. And —

— then — too soon, too suddenly, Arima pulls away. Just a bit. Kaneki’s eyes open, blearily. He’s breathless. After a dazed beat, his jaw clips shut, wipes away the line of saliva between them with a deep flush. As he does it, his knuckles shove against Arima’s face, and he pales.

“S-sorry. I didn’t mean to…it just…sorry.”

Arima eyes him. He is considering…something.

 _Do it_ , Kaneki thinks, with a rush, _kiss me more,_ and he can feel his face redden, embarrassed just by the impulse.

Then he leans forward, and Kaneki leans too to meet him again eagerly, but their lips only graze. Arima was aiming for his ear.

“Kaneki-san,” he whispers. His hand is…on Kaneki’s lower belly now. And…just a little lower. Kaneki holds his breath as his fingers press, feeling him out. He can’t sink further into the book shelf, though somehow, he tries anyway. The frame of Arima’s glasses are cold on the side of his face.

“Show me where you live.”

:::

There are all sorts of reasons why Kaneki would do it.

 _To save myself,_ for one. Follow through with his instruction, and buy himself a little more time than if he fought right now, or ran.

 _To save Anteiku_ might be another good reason. He could draw Arima’s attention away, distract him. Allow himself to take the fall for everyone else. Get captured or at least cornered, so Arima will finally move on.

 _To kill Arima_ — a long shot, but also plausible. Act calm, and then strike. His Rc cells are replenished, after all. He’s at his peak strength. And not even the Reaper would survive a fall from Kaneki’s floor. Right?

Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.

There are all sorts of good reasons to unlock his door and step aside, but in the end, the only thing he can think when he flips the light switch is, _I should have cleaned up more._

There’s still a scrap of brown waxed paper on the ground, which he missed earlier, and empty coffee cans stacked in his unused kitchen. His desk is still laid out with study materials from months ago. Two of his lamps don’t respond when he tries to turn them on. There are books on his bed, and he tries to gather and relocate them while Arima scans the room.

“It’s messy,” Kaneki mumbles, before Arima can say it himself.

“It’s nice. It suits you,” Arima replies. “It’s exactly as I thought it would be.” He sets down the guitar case, and Kaneki fists one hand as Arima approaches him again.

_Save myself. Save Anteiku. Kill him._

There’s only one other reason why he might bring Arima to his pathetic apartment, but it’s too stupid to even consider, much less indulge. Because there’s no way that Arima might actually — to Kaneki — right?

But Arima is drawing nearer, and suddenly the close walls feel as if they’re bottling up his scent, and magnifying it. Lovely, savory, rich. Kaneki’s head feels light even before Arima kisses him again, even before the two of them topple back onto his bed, with Kaneki gasping as Arima begins to nuzzle and the kiss behind his ears, down his neck.

It tickles. It sends jolts through his whole body. Arima unbuttons Kaneki’s shirt as he continues, revealing centimeters of skin that burn under his attention, his lips and gentle tongue tracing over his collarbone and breastbone and one of his left ribs, and then the right.

Kaneki himself has no idea what to do. Should he — touch back? Is he supposed to? Where? Or is Arima just toying with him? His hands clench the sheets and only lets go to swipe away saliva collecting at the corner of his mouth.

Arima is leaving shining patches across his body. Second rib. Third. An abdominal muscle. His navel. The skin below it. The last causes Kaneki to emit a strangled noise, which becomes a proper groan as Arima cups Kaneki’s full erection over his pants, and squeezes.

Oh no, oh no, no, he can’t take it anymore, he can’t. He grabs Arima’s face and drags it close, taking his delectable mouth again, unable to help the smallest nibble and a quiver as Arima’s lip splits, just a little, and drips something bright and electric onto Kaneki’s tongue. Arima straightens, and Kaneki watches him lick his lips; then he starts undoing Kaneki’s pants, and Kaneki reaches and begins clawing off Arima’s clothing as well.

Their bodies twist free of hems and sleeves. Something tears; something pops. He can’t tell what. Their clothes pile. His apartment seems unbearably hot suddenly, and only feels hotter when they’re both finally naked, but still somehow Arima’s heat lying across him is welcome, wonderful. Arima’s hand finds Kaneki’s cock and the bare contact, the deliberate grip and slow pump, makes Kaneki moan, loud. He reaches and wraps his fingers around Arima’s cock as well, making his fingers a ring beneath the head of it, and he strokes until Arima is even harder, until his wetness joins Kaneki’s in a wet smear across Kaneki’s belly.

 _He’s really beautiful._ His leanness, his smooth hair, even the glasses. Probably, Kaneki thinks wildly, he should try being attracted to different kinds of people, but for now, he stares openly, helplessly. His gaze only flicks away once, and Arima sees it happen, and follows his line of sight to a bedside drawer. He reaches and opens it, and withdraws exactly what Kaneki was thinking of: a tube of lubricant.

“Which do you want?” Arima asks.

“Either…either is fine,” Kaneki mutters back. “Whatever you want.”

Arima blinks at him, as if surprised. He appears to consider, and then distributes lubricant onto his index finger. Kaneki is ready for it, and watching, and still the first touch against his ass makes goosebumps rise across his body. He opens his mouth and Arima leans obligingly to fill it with his own as he continues, finger stroking back and forth, and then finally probing into the tight ring.

Kaneki carresses Arima’s lower back as his finger enters, slow, easing down to the first joint before withdrawing, repeating until he meets no resistance and then moving deeper, and deeper. When Arima’s longest finger joins, Kaneki’s nails dig, leaving marks; at the third, he struggles to keep breathing. His back arches, almost rising up off his bed. There’s still a couple books beneath him, he realizes belatedly. He doesn’t care.

“Ready?”

“Aah…pl…please.”

The next palm of lubricant is for Arima himself. He gives himself another couple pumps, and Kaneki raises his legs and inhales deeply as Arima parts his ass and carefully maneuvers his cock against the exposure.

 _He’s hot._ Much hotter than the things he’s used before. Kaneki exhales, shaking, as Arima moves halfway in, and then withdraws, achingly slow. That first thrust — that first thrust —

Is so good. Pleasure fills up his arms and legs, numbing at first, and then burning as Arima thrusts again, this time a little faster. Still, it isn’t — it isn’t quite —

And then Arima thrusts again, this time all the way in, and Kaneki cries out, and Arima does as well.

More kissing. More hunger. Less thought. Arima thrusts, steadily and then roughly, holding Kaneki’s legs back as Kaneki starts to lose focus on anything other than the waves of tremulous pleasure washing over him. The room fills with the squeaking of the bed’s springs, the creak and thump of its frame against the wall, their unstifled voices. Pressure is building across his body. He’s — he’s close, so close, so close — Kaneki starts to stifle himself, but his finger catches on his eyepatch, ripping the loop off one ear. It snaps off and Kaneki fumbles wildly for it, but a hand on his wrist stops him.

“Look at me,” Arima says breathlessly, and Kaneki does. He hopes that his eye hasn’t changed so much that Arima notices, and knows in the next moment that it has. Arima’s gaze is flicking between his eyes, brows furrowed. Kaneki starts to say something, but the only thing he manages is another helpless moan. Arima is thrusting again, harder, harder, _harder_ —

He climaxes — kicking, crying out into his arm, splattering across his stomach. A moment later, Arima comes as well, burying his face into Kaneki’s shoulder, throbbing and spilling warmth.

They’re panting. Their bodies are shaking. A pleasant ache is filling him from brow to toes, and through the haze of it, other details float back to him. It’s still too hot in the room. The sheets feel damp. The covers of the few books tangled alongside them are slick. Arima is withdrawing, but still lying across him, and the heaving of his body’s hard breaths is synced with Kaneki’s own.

His face is close, and Kaneki can’t help it; he turns his head, and presses his mouth to a bead of sweat on Arima’s brow.

He isn’t sure what happened, but it certainly wasn’t a fight. Arima is gazing at him again, examining Kaneki’s eyes, and Kaneki can’t find anything in his expression that indicates he plans to get up and unclasp his guitar case.

 _The worst_ , he thinks, _if that’s what it was, is over_ , and even as he thinks it, Arima shifts. His hands find Kaneki’s, pressing, palm to palm. They face each other. There’s a spot on Arima’s lip, a slightly swollen area turning as red as a piece of candy, and Kaneki leans up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!


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